Five Stages of Improbability
by Evelynhunters
Summary: He usually goes on his laptop -though not the blog, he's...he can't continue the blog- and he'll read about cases he found in the telly or ones he knew would be interesting to Sherlock if he were still alive. But he's not. So John Watson stops looking cases up. /John Watson going through the five stages of grief
1. Denial

Disclaimer: I own Sherlock in the parallel universe where I became the queen and demanded the rights of Sherlock.

No, I don't own Sherlock.

* * *

 **5 Stages of Improbability**

by: Evelynhunters

* * *

 **Denial**

John Watson is, first and foremost, a doctor. He got his Bachelor of Medicine and Surgery at King's College. He knows what medicines to use for different symptoms, where to find the pulse on a body, and how to treat a gun wound under pressure with only a shirt, a pair of tweezers, and a bottle of strong vodka (that probably came more from serving in Afghanistan than studying, though.) John Watson can confidently call himself logical enough to differentiate between a life and death injure.

Therefore, he knows the odds of Sherlock Holmes surviving a jump off Barts are highly improbable.

However, no matter how much he tries to convince himself that Sherlock Holmes is dead, that he _saw_ Sherlock's dead body, his mind won't listen. He finds himself up late calculating about the probability of surviving a jump like that. He watches endless videos of other jumpers, turning his head when they do jump. He reads articles about survivors. He researches about the injuries one would get if they survived and the causes of death for those who didn't. He works with a drive that frightened Mrs. Hudson when she first walked in on him.

"John! Are you going over those pictures again? Oh those photos are just bloody and gory, John," Mrs. Hudson said, eyes cringing at the pictures taped to the wall. The pictures were taped in a hurried fashion with lines drawn between them. Some were of people in mid air, arms flailing as if they were regretting their decision. Others were of impacts, people laying with body parts in awkward angles and blood, blood everywhere.

"Just checking for something," John mumbled reassuringly while jotting something down on a piece of paper. He squinted his eyes at the screen and bit his lower lip.

He saw Sherlock jump, but he never saw Sherlock land, though. So maybe, just maybe, that Sherlock had survived the fall. Maybe, when John was knocked onto the sidewalk, Sherlock had landed on something else. Maybe someone caught him. Maybe Mycroft arranged for some plan for this. Maybe he's going to come back, when the rumors -and they are rumors because Sherlock Holmes has never and will never be a fraud- die down. Maybe, when all this is over, they could sit back in the living room, Sherlock in his chair and John in his, and they can watch the Telly and Sherlock can throw a tantrum at the scientific impossibility of Doctor Who and John can tell him to stuff it and it would feel like nothing had happened and-

"John? John? Are you okay?" Mrs. Hudson worriedly tutted, "You've been out of it more and more often now! I'm going to the shop for a quick trip, I'll be back later. Do rest for a bit 'til then, you look a little pale." And with a sign and a motherly pat on the shoulders, she was gone.

He wasn't pale, or sick. So maybe he's pulled a few all-nighters in a row and hasn't eaten much food, it distracts from the train of thought, anyway. Sherlock has never needed food or rest during a case, and if John was going to solve this one, he would have to be as good as Sherlock Holmes.

John shook his head, he had lost track of what he was suppose to do. He closes his eyes and imagine (replaying) Sherlock falling from the roof. His limbs were away from him, a reaction against the natural instinct to protect his vital organs -lungs, heart, neck, head- from impact. Typical signs of jumpers, showing that he either accepted the fact that he will die, or he knew he would live.

John Watson wants to go with the second option.

The position the body was in on the ground was consistent with how Sherlock had fell. The body on the concrete was Sherlock's, he had identified it, and there was no pulse. Sherlock was, without a doubt, dead.

But John remembers reading somewhere about a plant that will stopped the pulse and breathing. So maybe Sherlock had found a way to cushion the fall and then pretended he was dead and maybe all the pedestrians walking by were actors and they sprayed fake blood on him and Sherlock had faked his death and-

Focus.

Sherlock's face and voice on the roof was calm, a bit overly so for someone jumping to their death. He didn't cry, or have any more emotion in his voice then when he lost in Cluedo to him. Sherlock Holmes didn't do sentiment, but he had left a note: a cruel phone call that rings repetitively in John's ears. Why would he do that? Why would he go out of his way indulging in something he had called 'found on the losing side' if he knew he was going to live?

There's a clear solution to this, the most obvious of them all, but John Watson ignores that because it would mean Sherlock Holmes is dead and John Watson hopes that isn't true.

(Knows. Not hopes. He _knows_ that isn't true.

Right?)

Molly Hooper did the autopsy. John would've insisted a last look but Lestrade had determined he was in enough shock as it was. It's okay, though, because Sherlock often insisted Molly was the only competent pathologist there and if that's what Sherlock thought, it's good enough for him.

It was after much begging and pity that John finally acquired a copy of the autopsy. It was an offering of chips that broke Molly Hooper's resolve. He thumbs through the pages briefly, catching words like _fractures_ and _wounds_ and _deceased_.

Maybe Lestrade was right, John thinks as he almost puke at the pictures.

He takes a sip from his cup of tea. Sherlock's cup on tray getting cold. It's become habit now, he always makes a second cup of tea, and every night he washes the full cup out. It's pathetic, but a small part of him can look at the living room again if he could see Sherlock's cup in it and he can imagine that he's only out for a case like he sometimes does alone.

John looks through the evidence again, back at the board of pictures and theories with a sign, knowing he should give up a dead cause but won't because this is Sherlock Holmes, and he does everything clever, so if he survived it would be the most clever thing out there.

(Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. And knowing Sherlock Holmes, it must be the most improbably thing out there.)

* * *

AN/ Hello. It's me.

Yes, I am aware that this is not the first 'five stages of grief' fanfic out there, but I came up with this idea when I was researching for my other book. That I started in seventh grade. I only just realized how much it could fit John Watson.

This will be a multi-chapter fic, but John will not find out that Sherlock survived, so it sticks to the plot of canon somewhat.

John is currently in denial. Poor John. Give him an Internet cookie by commenting and favoriting and following! ;)


	2. Anger

Disclaimer:

Cute police officer: ma'am do you own Sherlock?

Me: *leans forward and attempts in a flirty voice* what are you gonna do if I say yes? *winks with two eyes on accident*

Cute police officer: I would have to arrest you ma'am

Me: *attempts Irene Adler expression* and then what would happen?

Cute police officer: you would serve years in prison for false information and copyright infringement

Me: no, I do not own Sherlock.

* * *

 **5 Stages of Improbability**

by: Evelynhunters

* * *

"John? John? Can you hear me?"

John refocuses his gaze at Dr. Thompson in front of him and nods briskly.

Uninterested, or at least pretending to be, he glances out the rain pattered window again. The clouds are gloomy and his leg itches in a way it hasn't for months. Thunder echoes ominously outside against the constant tempo of the raindrops.

"Why today?" She asks with a firm stare and a tilted head. Curious, she leans back into the chair, a picture of calmness if he's ever seen one.

"Do you want to hear me say it?" It's a rhetorical question, John knows, but he can't help answering. His voice has the edge of sarcasm to it, a defense mechanism. The rain outside is calm for the meanwhile, the soft pitter-patter resonates into the quiet, empty room.

"Eighteen month since our last appointment," she clarifies with the gentle voice of one talking to a child.

John raised his eyebrows in disbelief. "You read the papers," He says too quickly and tries to take a deep breath. _You know_ , he thinks, _you know and you want me to say it._

"Sometimes," she nods her agreement.

"Hm," he makes a noncommittal in the back of his throat, "and you watch Telly." He stares at her, daring her almost. She doesn't respond, allowing his to continue with his tirade. The wind outside howls, picking up speed as it goes.

"You know why I'm here," he says almost angrily in a dejected tone, "I'm here because S-" he almost chokes on his tongue. An image of a body flash before his eyes. He can't say it. He waved his hands to her in a 'you know' gesture.

She straightens up in her chair, leaning closer to him. "What happened, John?"

Taking in a few shallow breathes before opening them, he closes his eyes and then opens them, glaring his most hatred filled stare at her. She's determined that he answers the question, he can read it in her face. He tightens his jaw, and closes his eyes again.

"Sher-," he starts the sentence with the intent to finish it but he can't, and the air escapes out of his mouth in an almost whistle. Even though he doesn't even say the name, he ends up biting his lip to make sure he doesn't cry or have a breakdown at his therapist's office. He shuts his eyes and the images replay in his mind and he doesn't want to say them out loud because this isn't a dream and what he says here makes it real. He can't say it he can't say it he can't-

"You have to get it out," she says with eyes filled wth pity and he has to look away.

"My best friend," he mumbles before taking a pause because he can't bring himself to say the name, "Sherlock Holmes-" he chokes out in a whisper before his throat closes up.

"-is dead." He finishes emptily, feeling the sting in his eyes and desperately not wanting to cry in front of his therapist. He looks up to see her still staring at him, silently telling him it's fine if he wants to end the session early.

He leaves.

* * *

He takes the tube back, because walking has proved too much of an inconvenience when it's raining and he doesn't take cabs anymore because of-

Right.

The ride is loud. There's chatter and sniffles and children screaming and that one person who seems like they're on the edge of falling asleep even though it's three in the afternoon and he's thankful because the noise distracts him from the ones in his head.

The cane sits against his leg, only moving against it when the train swerves. Useless the thing has been since his limp was gone. Until now, he suppose.

Two stops before Baker Street, John sees a copy of the papers on the floor, trampled by people with wet foot prints as evidence of its bruises. Even though it's tattered beyond recognition John can see the colors of the picture that was there on the front page, and if he squints and tilts his eyes he knows the picture would be of a dead detective wearing an 'ear hat' that he despised. (Sherlock pouted when that photo was taken and almost threatened to have a tantrum when John posted it on his blog.) The headlines, he recalls, would be 'Famous Fake Detective Kills Himself' or 'Fraud driven to suicide' and it would contain details about how Sherlock Holmes had faked all his cases and deductions.

He's read that article hundreds of times, researched about Richard Brook's existence thousands of time, and gone over the proof even more. The proof was real, all real, so real it was irrefutable to a tee and that he, John Watson, had even doubted Sherlock Holmes.

However, there was no faking the crazed gaze John sometimes caught in Sherlock's eyes. There was no denying the little spats of insults with quick delivered deductions. There was no refusing the natural way he calculated while meeting someone. Sherlock Holmes was not a fraud. Of that John Watson was a hundred percent sure of.

The doors opened with a thump and John, after balancing on his cane for a few seconds, hobbles out the door. Watching people make way for him, either for his limp or recognizing him from the papers, he makes it pass the busy hallways and takes the escalator. The person in front of him is wearing a rain coat, and the water droplets drip from the edge of the hood to the steps. The sky outside, despite it being the afternoon, was dark and gloomy. The rain didn't seem to be slowing down, and John regrets not bringing an umbrella.

Damn.

He walks into the street rather steadily and succeeds in not slipping, which with the limp and the rain is a win in his book. Squished through the crowd of people all desperate to get out of the rain, he uses his free hand to grab his keys in his pocket.

He manages to open the door and shakes a few rain drops out of his hair before entering. Wiping his feet on the mat before taking his shoes off, he checks for Mrs. Hudson. He doesn't really know these days, she might be at the shop, gossiping with the neighbors, or rondevuing with the baker.

Logically, he knows that Mrs. Hudson is also in mourning, but it doesn't feel as intense as his. He can't go back to work without breaking down, he can't talk to Lestrade before feeling like he might punch him, and he can't accept Anderson's apologies. He's not recovering like she is. Hell, he's not recovering like any of them! Lestrade's thrown himself in his work, Mycroft has stayed the heartless bastard he's always been, and Molly Hooper visits Mrs. Hudson every week to make sure she's alright.

And the main reason why he, John Watson, is healing slower than every one of them is because they didn't see him die.

They don't get the nightmares of Sherlock jumping on repeat. They don't see his dead body every time they blink. They aren't constantly reminding themselves, this is what Sherlock looks like, because all they can see when they think of Sherlock is not the brilliant genius or the rude arsehole but a dead and bloody body on the sidewalk. They don't get the constant sleepless nights where they get scared of the dark. They don't hear whispers of last words when they're alone. They don't live with the knowledge that Sherlock Holmes was calm and ready when he jumped. They don't get that.

And at that train of thought, he curses at himself. He curse at Sherlock, for being a god damn bastard who made his best friend watch him die!

He doesn't realize he's said it out loud until his fist had punched the wall and his voice echoed around him in the empty flat.

"You bastard! You god damn no good fucking BASTARD!" He yells again throwing the cane off to the side. It ricochets off the wall to the cabinet. He storms into the living room, looking for things to throw. He grabs the pillows from the couch and knocks off all the papers on the desks.

He releases indistinguishable words while destroying the room. He pushes over the god damn chair and screams, because this is what he's kept inside for so LONG and he's finally letting it go. He wipes all the experiments in the kitchen table off in one swipe and the sick satisfaction he has grows at hearing the glass beakers shatter. He picks up the objects on the mantel and throws them at the wall one by one before he gets to the skull.

The god damn skull with a thin layer of dust around the from lack of use. The god damn skull that Sherlock always talked to because he's a pompous ass and 'doesn't need human interaction'.

He throws it at the smiley face on the wall.

He pushes over drawers and cabinets, the other chair, the tables, everything in his sight because _everything reminded him of Sherlock and he can't stand that arsehole right now_. That, that, _machine_. How can someone live without feelings, emotions, even the least bit of remorse? How can someone live like that? How can someone make their best friend watch them die? How can someone live with themselves knowing that they did that?

(Sherlock's dead, John, a voice that sounds a lot like his therapist reminds him.)

With a last guttural inhumane scream he crashes on the floor, his face in his hands as he finally breaks down, surrounded by chaos of his own creation.

* * *

AN/ Hello all of you wonderful wonderful people!

Thank you for the one who reviewed! *winks* you get cookies. *whispers thanks to thilbo4ever*

Anywho...I am in need of ideas of how this should go. Should I add Mary? Should I make Mycroft cry? Should I make the doctor swoop in and mistake John for Rose Tyler? Who knows?

Comment your opinion! And maybe favorite and follow along the way *nudge nudge*.

Poor John, again. Sorry John.


	3. Bargaining

A/N: yes. I deleted the chapter and I've re-uploaded it. It wasn't fair to you guys how short this was and I didn't add in Mycroft yet so, I've done some damage control and here it is, a bit better and a whole lot longer. Though Mycroft feels a bit out of character for me. Leave in the comments what you think! Hey thilbo4ever, if it's all the same to you I'd like that cheese cake now.

Disclaimer: (3rd time)

Doctor: where am I? I have fallen through the void. This must be an alternate universe! I wonder if this is Pete's world... Maybe Rose is here...

John Watson: *walks down the street and accidentally makes eye contact with the Doctor*

Doctor: Rose! *rushes to John and hugs him tightly*

John: *tries to escape the Doctor's hug*

(Since you requested it ;))

Me: no, I do not own Sherlock nor Doctor Who.

* * *

 **5 Stages of Improbability**

by: Evelynhunters

* * *

Mrs. Hudson doesn't blame him for Sherlock's death. Lestrade and Anderson don't blame him for Sherlock's death. No one blames him for Sherlock's death. And yet, he can't help but feel so guilty when he thinks about the best man he ever knew falling to his death knowing his best friend left him all alone.

He's having dinner with Mrs. Hudson when he first has the thought. It's not the first time he's thought it, but it is the first time he has let his brain completely finish it.

And then it plagues him like an itch. It scratches at the back of his mind when he's making a cuppa, clings to his thoughts when he's reading the papers, and piggy backs on his emotions when he's having a break down.

It's only at night that he dares voices it, because at night is when all the horrible things and thoughts are circling in his head and if he doesn't say it he will go crazy with the guilty thoughts in his mind repeating and repeating and-

"What if I didn't leave Barts?" He asks tentatively into the darkness, voice rougher than it should be.

"What if I didn't leave Barts to check on Mrs. Hudson? What if I stayed, with Sherlock?" He stares at his ceiling for answers, "Would he still have jumped? Would I have been able to prevent it?"

The dreams he fall asleep into are restless, and he finds himself dreaming of a different event, a different situation, and a different outcome. He dreams about violin playing at a god awful hour at night. He dreams about coming back home with the smell of gunpowder in the air. He dreams about the cases they'd get. He dreams about black hair passing out from lack of sleep. He dreams about Sherlock still alive, still deducting and running and arguing and breathing and alive.

And when he wakes up, it's the little pause of breath he takes before yelling at Sherlock to stop playing the violin at night that makes him remember none of it is true.

* * *

He indulges in it when he's alone.

When it's only him at the flat, (which is pretty often, since Mrs. Hudson has finally found an honest man in the baker), he thinks of a new way that he could've prevented Sherlock from dying.

If he had stayed...

If he had dragged Sherlock with him...

If he had, if he had, if he had...

And he'll close his eyes, and imagining himself doing those things. He imagines staying with Sherlock even though Mrs. Hudson could be in danger. He imagines himself dragging Sherlock by the collar back to Baker Street. He imagines the next day, waking up, no longer a fugitive with Sherlock but the papers still saying he's a fraud and Lestrade unable to come around and visit. He imagines Sherlock pouting at his ruined reputation and the lack of interesting cases. He imagines Sherlock annoyed and throwing tantrums and being loud and rude to people they meet. John Watson imagines living next to a consulting detective who's alive and breathing and _alive_.

And he always has to open his eyes. Be it Mrs. Hudson comes back or a noise jolted him out of his thoughts or he can no longer continue the story. It's the part he hates most, because he has to open his eyes and face the messy, cold, lack-of-Sherlock flat and come back to the reality that Sherlock Holmes is dead.

He keeps doing it anyway, any chance that he gets. Because as much as it hurts, for a little while it's the closest thing he can get to living in the reality where Sherlock isn't dead and a little while is all he needs.

Sherlock once told him -late at night during a case where the detective hadn't ate or slept in two days- that he did drugs because they quieted his mind. That they allowed him a moment of peace from himself.

John starts to get why now, even though their reasoning for their addiction are the exact opposite: one to get away from Sherlock and the other to. John Watson finally gets it's so addicting, because those moments are everything he wished had happened instead of the real thing.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson doesn't like it when he does it. It's taken over him. He starts doing it during dinner, during tea time, during everywhere. She thinks it's horribly morbid and _really John no good can come out of thinking what ifs_ and _John? What are you talking about? We gave the violin to Mycroft at the funeral_ and _I loved Sherlock too, and I'm sure you did more, but this is not the way to heal_.

He's too busy imagining the scenario in which Moriarity had never existed to say the usual "I'm not gay" at her. Without the consulting criminal Sherlock's reputation would have never been ruined so he wouldn't have jump so he would be alive. However, without the consulting criminal, half of their cases are gone. No cabbie, the first one they bonded over; no 'The Woman', the first time he's seen Sherlock Holmes mourn; and no bombings, the first time John realized he could be used involuntarily as a weapon.

Moriarity had tore them apart yet was the one that kept them together. Huh.

He's startled out of his musing by Mrs. Hudson's voice. "Go outside today, John! Take a walk. It'll do better than being stuffed inside the whole day. Come on! I'm going to the bakers anyway."

He looks out the shutters, the light streaming through were bright in the darkened room. It was sunny day, maybe it would do him well to take a walk. He brings a light jacket with him and, finishing tying his shoes, starts out the door.

And of course, his eyes land on a black car parked right in front of Baker Street with a woman he's somewhat familiar with leaning against the side door.

Of course.

He approaches the car with a somewhat exasperated tone. "How long have you been waiting?" He questions instead of greeting. "Or did Mycroft Holmes use some special powers so he knew I would take a walk right now, on this day?"

"Neither," she finishes the text she was composing with a flourish of the hand and starts on a new one without looking at him, "Mrs. Hudson was worried about you."

Still not looking up from her phone she opens the side door and slips in the car, and he chooses between the choices of a walk with a limp on a sunny day or a silent car ride to a no doubt damp and abandoned office building. He doesn't like either of them.

He chooses the car, not because he's afraid of people recognising him from the papers by because his leg is tired. From walking from the front door to the car.

Right.

He goes in the car -not so gracefully- and closes the door. The car starts and the tinted windows doesn't really allow him to watch the scenery. He considers starting a conversation with -Athena? Anthea? Which ever it is he knows it's not her real name- but that would just be suicide considering how it went down last time. Or he could start ignoring her and stay in the car long after it stops to play flappy bird on his phone.

Before he's decided the cars stopped and he exits the car on auto pilot. Shot. There goes plan b.

He looks towards the building they've stopped in front of. Dark, gloomy, people less. Seems to fit the criteria for buildings Mycroft Holmes arrange meetings at. He looks back at the car with Anthea inside it, the engines killed and doesn't seem like it's going anywhere. Great.

He's muttering under his breath about the bloody Holmes gene that carries for dramatics when he reaches the end door. It opens with a creak, and, after he's got a good grip on both the handle and his cane, he walks forward.

There's no chair -there never is, he doesn't know why he expected one- and Mycroft Holmes is leaning on his umbrella. John Watson tightens his grip on his cane and walks forward faster.

"Pleasant day, isn't it Dr. Watson?" The elder Holmes drawls out, looking up and down at John, no doubt deducing the lack of sleep from dreams and the lack of meals he's had. "Mrs. Hudson was _concerned_ " -Mycroft says the word with an air of disapproval and John can hear a voice in the back of his mind saying 'sentiment'- "about you. She says you've been... out of it...lately."

John can't help but bare his teeth at him and hiss out. "What I do is none of her nor your bloody business. I know you don't care about Mrs. Hudson's concern, so why the bloody hell am I here?" he spats.

"My brother wasn't the most caring person when he was alive," Mycroft says with the arrogance one who lost a brother shouldn't have, "and I'm tying up loose ends." He finishes his point with a stare, as if willing his point across through telepathy.

"Tying up loose ends? You Holmes are drama queens. If I didn't know any better I'd say you're going to kill me."

"No, I am simply finishing something my dear brother hadn't the heart to finish. Dr. Watson," he pauses, as if stalling before the important subject, "he has lied to you. He had deceived you. Sent you away. Hurt you for no purpose. You know he will never return your feelings-"

"For god sake I'm not gay!"

"-since he is wise not to be sentimental. He had done you wrong on so many accounts, my dear brother." Mycroft continues as if he hadn't heard John's blustering exclamation, leans forward on his umbrella, and parts of John really wanted to see it slip on the tile floor. "Why do you blame yourself for his death?"

John pauses before answering, either from thinking or frustrations. "Because it was. I had driven him to that. Because for a moment, and it was just a moment but still for a moment, I didn't believe in Sherlock Holmes and a moment was all I need to leave him. I should've seen sign before he left. And now I look back they were so obvious." He signs and shakes his head, "he was scared, Mycroft. He was scared and I left him alone and that's why he's dead. It's my fault that he's dead."

There's a pause in the air after his confession, the dark little secret he hasn't said to anyone else because he knows they would realise it's true. It's in the air when things get heavy between him and Lestrade. It's unspoken but always lurking when he's around his therapist. It's here, now, out in the open after he's said it to the person he'd never expected to say to.

"John," Mycroft starts and John thinks it's the first time he hasn't been addressed to as Dr. Watson by him, "my brother would've jump even if you hadn't left. He's stubborn like that. He found a way to stay on drugs after three attempts of rehab. He would've found another way to get you to leave." There's a tone of resignation in his breath, like it's taking him more effort than it should for him to breathe.

"If I..." John's voice cracks slightly before he says the sentence he's imagined so many times before, "if I had trusted him more. If I had recognise the signs earlier..." His voice trails off and he feels the stinging in his eyes.

Great. First he almost breaks down before his therapist and now he's going to cry in front of Mycroft Holmes.

Thinking that thought didn't stop the onslaught on tears, though. And John stands there, with his hand tight around the cane and his jaws clenched and fat, ugly tears rolling down his face. He can feel them trickling down his cheeks and dripping down his jaw. He hates it. He's weak. If he had been stronger Sherlock would be alive. If he had...

The sound of a click echoes through the room, and John looks up in surprise at the elder Holmes holding out a cigarette to him. He takes it and Mycroft, with shaky hands (unusual, John notes) lights it for him. He takes out another and lights it, too. The two of them in silence, both smoking a cigarette that John's sure was too high brand to be something he could afford.

"If you don't mind me saying, John," Mycroft says in a surprisingly soft and raw voice, "my brother was one of the most selfish person ever lived. And I'm sorry-"

His voice catches and John, not believing the sight before him, watches him breaks down. Mycroft's face had crumpled in, his eyes teary and John can see one carving a trail on his face, and something John can only describe as the equivalent of heartbreak and broken resolve on his face. It's just a few seconds, and Mycroft is back to the steely professionalism he has always maintained, with that single tear disappearing, but for a few seconds he sees the human, broken, sad side of Mycroft Holmes that's grieving for his brother.

And for a few seconds, that's all he needed to know he wasn't the only one.

* * *

AN/ hello you lovely people! ;)

Thank you thilbo4ever as always, and I will make Mycroft cry, so don't throw away that cheesecake just yet.

To Rielle, I got the doctor here! Hope it was satisfying though it is very short.

And speaking of short...I am so sorry but compared to the last two chapters this seems to be missing ...oh about a thousand words. ...sorry.

I've been weak. And lazy. And not that motivated. Which has nothing to do with you all! If anything it's all the homework I have!

Alright I'm rambling. Anyway, comment your opinion! What you think I should do to continue this! Here are your options for next chapter:

Bring Mary in, have a cameo of Mrs. Hudson and the baker (oh la la), or have John see Sherlock's ghost. Ohhh the suspense. Vote for the choices or make your own. Open to suggestions.

...and also maybe favorite and follow along the way. ;)

Poor John, again. Sorry John. At least he didn't break anything this time.


	4. Depression

Disclaimer: I don't even know if you guys read these...but for what it's worth I don't own Sherlock.

* * *

 **5 Stages of Improbability**

by: Evelynhunters

* * *

He stopped talking when he realised how lonely his voice sounds in the echoes of the empty, empty room. He usually talks to air or gestures something to the space next to him.

It hits him right in the middle of a sentence, right in the middle of a word, and he's left blinking in the aftermath of it without anything to say. There's no one left to listen, he thinks, and dumbly sits in a chair with the lack of anything better to do. He was talking about something, something with grand gestures and animated voices, he was sure, and then he stops. He realises that no ones there listening.

He remains still, ears stretching for a noise that isn't the pipes or the flat breaking down. There's nothing, absolutely nothing, and he doesn't know why he thought there would be any because Sherlock's dead but he keeps listening as if he'll hear something that resembles the life that was there before if he stands still enough.

He's got his feet flat against the floor and his hands under his chin, not making a single noise and remains that way until Mrs. Hudson opens the door and breaks him out of his focus.

* * *

You're so stupid, John Watson, because what's the use of a doctorate if you can't save anyone? What's the use of a doctorate when you can't save your best friend and every one who was on the field? What's the point of you if you can't even help anyone?

* * *

He's tossing and turning in his bed, unable to sleep -which, with all things considered makes sense but recently it's even more out of hand. It's not really the prospect of nightmares (memories) that keeps him from falling asleep but rather the silence, emptiness, the hollowness of everything. The hollow of a building for two and the hollow excuse of a man.

He's so tired. He wants to sleep. He wants that mindless black hole rest where when all you remember when you wake up is how you fell asleep. John Watson doesn't want the nightmares (memories). But instead all he has is a silent flat, a silent room, and a dead body of a man who used to not be silent until that was all he is.

It's like a crushing weight on his chest, his lungs, maybe somewhere to the left (but he won't admit that it's his heart) and the blank white ceiling makes him feel sad but the lack of sound from anything else in the flat makes him want to cry.

He downloads Mozart's Concerto for Violins on his iPod and he turns it up as loud as he can without disturbing Mrs. Hudson. He goes to sleep with the heart breaking sound of trills and falls and the feel of something filling up the empty space.

* * *

He gets an apple from the basket for breakfast, tosses it between his hands, sets it down next to his laptop with the intention of eating it and then puts it back in the basket later when he realises he's totally forgotten about it.

It's not like he's actively starving himself, he just...doesn't have the appetite. Right.

He's got other things on his mind than eating, he justifies, even though he can't really remember what he does for most of the day. He usually goes on his laptop -though not the blog, he's...he can't continue the blog- and he'll read about cases he found in the telly or ones he knew would be interesting to Sherlock if he were still alive.

But he's not. So John Watson stops looking cases up.

He looks at the drawer handle a lot, too. Sometimes he'll put his hand on the handle, almost pulling it but stopping even the slightest of tugs. Sometimes he'll just really look at the handle and wonder what Sherlock would see if he were still alive.

Would he see the worn out paint of that handle compared to the relatively new paint on all the others? Would he be able to deduce how many times John thought about opening the drawer? Would he know, just by a glance, what was in the drawer that seems so significant?

But he's not. So John Watson stops wondering what Sherlock Holmes would have thought.

On the days where it gets bad, really bad, and he opens the drawer, he'll move his eyes along the reflection of light the black plastic gives and all the temptation wrapped in one little click and he'll think about it, for a minute that if he fires the gun the air would be filled with something, some noise. That it wouldn't be so dreadfully silent like it never was. That it wouldn't be so...empty like it is now.

He takes one more look at the gun, that temptation wrapped in one little click and he closes the drawer.

* * *

Sometimes the Concerto can get him to sleep in a minute. Other times he's not so lucky, and he'll go on YouTube to search for gunshot noises because _Dr. Watson, you're not haunted by the war. You miss it._

* * *

AN/ Hello. Please don't kill me.

Yeah I am an awful person.

As it turns out I am not someone who can do multi chapter fics that need regular updating. Even when there's only five chapters.

Sorry. This is short too, so double sorry.

Well, I wrote this and, feeling extremely guilty, did not go back and check any of it so if there are any errors and spelling or grammar (or you want to tell me I'm a butt head for not updating sooner) write me some comments.

:/ forgive me!


End file.
